The lapse of luxury

"It is bitter to have loved and lost than never to laugh it off," Bamuall Subtler

Monday, April 17, 2006

corpse with a tale


Whenever conventions are believed, or accepted as authentic, there is alienation and lack of communication. Can I be happy and unconventional, as is absolutely necessary? Will everybody find me intolerable as I am? Would that be bearable? My persona which barely scraped by, is now brain-dead and on life-support. I need a living will as this is the living end.


Mr. Stryder Turbo-Slut grinds his heel in my bloated corpse, and taunts me, "Can you give me a lift, bud?" The rhinestones on his jacket are glitter applets, tiny machines each doing their part converting the world into saleable, marketable material. As Stryder ejaculates, the applets decompile every drop.

The rhinestones alert Stryder to the presence of orgasmic stimulus. And Stryder cumz in perpetuam.

"I shall not return, because I'm always coming," he puckers with a wink. "And coming all ways."

Stryder has never seen me nor notices he stands on me; he is infallibly aware of his environment, loves everyone, and loves life.

"I hate poor sports," he spouts. "Luckily, poor sports don't exist."

Based on Stryder's durable monolithic template, the applets concoct new ways to stimulate the desires of people like me, make us love life again and broaden the consumer base. But the applets miss crucial data, because they've never seen us non-cons cum, nor pre-cum. So they keep thinking we've cum, but we never left.

Dislodged rhinestones scurry like crabs through our limp bodies, over our shriveled cocks, and into our dried-up cunts, tirelessly tweaking for data.

Stryder stands heroic, immobile, locked in forward gaze on a plinth of serene oblivion - a tribute to his quenchable passions.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I've always wanted a plinth of serene oblivion -- just a small plinth, though. I'm not the greedy type.

12:40 p.m.  

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